Arlo Flinn's Blog
An irregularly updated blog from the rantings of Arlo Flinn and check back often.
Plane Stupid 13/4/10
And what’s wrong now? I’ll tell you what, apart from everything: people on planes.
I don’t mean other planes, as in planes of existence, because I’m more than happy for them to occupy whatever construct they’ve constructed for themselves. It wouldn’t do for them to be taking up 
space on my fluffy cloud. I mean aeroplanes, where it’s difficult to avoid rubbing shoulders with people you would normally rather send into orbit in a shoddy spaceship fashioned from biscuit tins.
What is it with these imbeciles? And in particular, why? Why do they fight like land-based piranhas for a window seat and then spend the entire flight with the blind down? Why do they push and trample so rudely to be first, first, first when it makes not one jot of difference to their progress through the hideous halls of Hades? It’s a mystery to me, and Toyah … remember that one? It’s a mystery, oh it’s a mystery … which was always a bit of a mystery to me too until I realised just now that she was singing about air travel.
Anyway, not only are most of my fellow passengers far too fat to squeeze into the tiny little seats … they really should book two for themselves and their belligerent bottoms … but their choice of clothing for the trip is beyond comprehension. Do they usually dress is such a bizarre fashion? 
What is it with people going on holiday that makes them think they need a quasi-sporting get up? They clearly never take any exercise at any other point in their lives. Do they honestly believe that the confines of an aeroplane is an ideal environment in which to make a start on their fitness regime? Because what you do mostly on planes is sit down … so like the rest of their lives then. Mind you, having just experienced the vast reaches of Palma airport I’m surprised they make it through. It’s at least fifteen square miles big. But maybe they don’t make it at all. Maybe they’re still there, huffing and sweating and having to rest every thirty yards or so, despite their athletic attire. It must cut their holiday short by days … not that I care. The only downside of this for me is that I can’t enjoy the reduction in their numbers in Britain because I’m not here either.
Worst group of travellers ever: those bound for Alicante.
Best thing about going on holiday: the South West quadrant was still standing when I got back.
Development or Destruction?
Yes, it’s me again, back for another vicious grumble after a prolonged silence, a silence sadly not attributable to the sudden rightness of everything in our delightful town but due entirely to the feebleness of the puny string of internet cable/cotton that connects these far-flung parts to the outside world: it broke. Or something. I hear things work better in Sodom. It’s warmer, too, and easier to fix.
So anyway … what’s wrong now?
I’ll tell you what: the South West Quadrant development / destruction, that’s what.
Some ideas hang around because they’re good … I can’t think of an example right now apart from battered Mars bars, but you know what I mean. Hopefully. Other ideas are not good but they hang around anyway because someone somewhere doesn’t want to give them up. I’m getting the feeling that the South West Quadrant idea might fall into the second category. Despite vehement protest against this lunacy, the notion that one of the more interesting and useful areas of Bridport would be better after a savage and totally unnecessary make-over is with us still. Er … why?
Bridport University
Another thing I heard: Bridport could become a University town. Yes! We could be an annexe to Bournemouth or Bristol or anywhere really … Bratislava, maybe … with lots of keen, clean-living students staying studiously in purpose built accommodation, busily availing themselves of all the wonderful courses on offer at … um …
So it kind of smells like the people responsible for the SW Quadrant idea might be the same people who thought up the University idea. They smack of the same brain to me, the same logic: if it ain’t broke, fix it anyway. And what motivates them, I wonder … altruism? Civic pride? Money, by any chance?
Quadrant or Parallelarhomboid?
The last time I had a little rant on this subject I was soundly chastised by a fellow citizen because I’d omitted to check out the proposed plans (which could be inspired, he said) currently buried under the floor in the basement of an annexe to the Bridport town council buildings at an undisclosed location in Bratislava. I was supposed to see how good/bad the plans were before passing judgement. Well, I never do any research so poo to that idea but this very same citizen was to be found in the pub recently, complaining about … yes, the rubbish plans for the South West Quadrant. He’d been to have a look, presumably spurred on by my sloppy attitude. And who thought that one up anyway? I’ve lived in this town for years and I’ve never encountered any quadrants. I think it’s just another evil ploy to throw the rebellious populace off the development scent. It makes it all sound like it’s happening somewhere else, a square place, for example.
Bridport is not square. It’s messy and funny and full of lunatics and if it needs re-launching, let’s market it as an interesting study venue for anthropologists hoping to complete their convoluted theses on bizarre human behaviour. We’d excel at that, and we wouldn’t need to change a thing.
Rat in the Kitchen
And what’s wrong now, apart from the usual everything? I’ll tell you: pubs, that’s what. Pubs smell. Now they no longer have a fog of cigarette smoke drifting about they smell of everything else that happens in them … so beer, the farts that inevitably follow the consumption of beer, food, bins, customers. Not all customers smell, of course, or indeed fart but without the fags to coat everyone in a uniform smokiness our individual odour has prevailed, plus the beer, bins etc.
Some people might think this is preferable. I’m not one of them and I’m guessing it’s a pretty safe bet that the idiots who are now complaining about stinky pubs are the very same bunch who thought it was a great idea to ban smoking and make everyone stand outside on the pavement ... or worse still in one of those purpose-built smoking shacks that were hastily erected by kindly landlords, accurately anticipating a sharp fall in trade following yet another misguided directive from our worthless elected members.
I recall certain non-smoking friends gleefully announcing that they’d be going to the pub much more frequently once the fags had been done away with … well, no. It simply hasn’t happened, as it turns out. I never thought it would, mainly because they never went in the first place. And even if they were prepared to make the effort, just to prove that they’re now prepared to make the effort, there’s no one for them to talk to any more. They’re all outside on the pavement, having a cig in the rain. And if the non-smokers go and stand outside too, hoping for a bit of witty banter or whatever there’ll be no one left inside at all, so no one to complain about the smell. Or the smoke. Anyway, as a direct result of this lunacy pubs are closing at a rate of approximately 72 every five minutes so soon there’ll be none of them left either, stinky or not.
And the point of this was … um …
Can’t we make up our own minds how to go on?
But wait … I see yet another brilliant money making opportunity here: cans of ambient smoke! Like Glade or that other stuff that gives your kids allergies but smoke flavoured! And for bigger establishments, an 
automated box of smoke … think box of wine … concealed under a bench in a corner somewhere, that can be set to exhale at the landlord’s discretion for a genuine authentic olde worlde pub-style experience. And I could name this fabulously unnecessary product … Nostalgique! Brilliant!
Or perhaps the government could revoke the ban and try in future to concentrate their efforts on slightly more important stuff.
Now that’s probably a better idea.
Top tip for this week: if you suspect there’s a rat in your kitchen, you should try taking the rubbish out more often.
Problem With Drugs
There’s a problem with drugs, not just the usual problems but a whole new world of complications. You may have noted that some government advisory bloke was let go this week for trying to tell our worthless elected members that riding a horse is more dangerous than taking ecstasy.
I say, it depends on the horse. Some horses are very dangerous indeed and some are so pedestrian you wonder why you bothered getting on them in the first place. It’s an individual choice: what kind of experience do you want? Unfortunately with horses it’s only after you’re sitting on them that you discover just how dangerous they are and by then it’s too late to change your mind. This can be the same with drugs, of course, which might’ve been where he was going with his advice ie it’s only after you’ve ingested them that you begin to seriously regret your actions, but then we all know that anyway, including everyone who’s never been anywhere near a horse.
Horses and Ecstacy
I suppose he was trying to be helpful with his comparisons but maybe all he’s managed to do is cause even more confusion: what about the dangers of combining horses and ecstasy? Or horses and alcohol? No, that happens all the time but it did make me wonder about the true role of the joint masters of the Cattistock hunt: what have they really got stuffed under their hard hats? Dreadlocks and a couple of pre-rolled spliffs? And they do spend quite a lot of time going off on their own (looking for hounds/foxes/whatever) rather like the tooters of cocaine (got a weak bladder/no signal/whatever). It’s all a bit of a muddle …
But never mind. Perhaps the sacked advisor could set up an independent advisory service, on-line or somewhere, advising us on how to spot tell-tale signs of homicidal horses or dodgy deals. Oddly, horse dealers are possibly the dodgiest bunch of people I’ve ever had the misfortune to do business with. Now I’m really confused …
Ajax, baking powder and dog wormer
What is clear is that I’m happy to concede that I’ve always been rather fond of drugs myself, especially alcohol and tobacco (see my fabulous novel Thank you for not Smoking), which tend to run concurrently and then caffeine with lots of deadly sugar and pain-killers, which happen after. But I am also inordinately fond of horses, despite many brushes with death when in their company, so I’m not at all sure where this leaves the debate … except that a Blue Peter presenter was once sacked for giving out a recipe for cocaine: mix together equal quantities of Ajax, baking powder and dog wormer and gift-wrap it for your parents for Christmas! Or sell it to your friends! And as far as I know, no Blue Peter presenter was ever sacked for riding a horse.
Who knows how to go on?
Times for a Change Oct 09
In response to some slack journalism Townies in the Country - Times online
I hear you gasp in disbelief: surely they're an invading horde of witless idiots? Surely they should be rounded up immediately and deported to Hampshire in stinking cattle trucks? And then we can torch their ridiculous shiny 4x4s and squat their ludicrous houses and rob their cellars and draw silly moustaches on their smug family portraits ...
Let me reassure you: this is my view too, and it sounds very much like my kind of weekend ... but I maintain that natural selection will sort this one out for us. No-one needs to risk a jail sentence here. How so? Bear with me while I try to explain ...
Like all herd animals, the townie only feels safe in a large group of its own kind. They may sometimes graze where they're not wanted but the damage is minimal: they always revert to their home pastures in the end eg The Bull, the Cattistock hunt, The Hive (which could be renamed The Stock Yard). This makes them easier to avoid than their numbers might suggest.
Like all herd animals, the townie is not capable of independent thought. They are quickly bored and need constant stimulation from expensive sources to keep them entertained ... so we're back to The Bull, the Cattistock etc. They can visit each other. They can invite potential herd members down from London for the weekend but really, is any of it that diverting?
And this was always the most perplexing thing for me: if you don't get Bridport, what is there to do? Pop out to Bridget's for a pound of spinach? Avail yourself of the buy one get one free offers in Superdrug? I think not. And there aren't enough of them or us to keep too many more of the townie-type places going. I know I can't afford to pay £4:95 for a small glass of wine more than once a quarter.
So ... this is why I maintain that natural selection will sort it out for us. Put your rifles down, lads. Sooner or later, thrown together so acutely as they are, they'll start to bicker and fight amongst themselves. They'll run out of grazing and the more intelligent of the herd will leave in search of richer pastures elsewhere. Those that fail to follow their leaders will start to tire of each other, of the same venues over and over, of the three hour plus drive from London, of the murderous look in the locals eyes when they run over them ... sorry, I meant into them ... and they'll realise that they need new blood to stay healthy ... but the new blood has missed out Bridport and followed the leaders direct to ... wherever.
Ignore them. They'll die back without any intervention or they'll move on. They will.
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Poundburyfication Sept 09
Somewhere between Exeter and Chard, if you go by a peculiar route, lies the town of Bridport (where we live, remember?) Both these places are easy to avoid. Closer than that there's Dorchester, which is less easy to avoid but you can go round the outside. I don't want to live in any of them. I want to live in Bridport. I love Bridport. It's brilliant. That's why I live here. Anyway, I heard today that there is a plan to pull down the fabulous St Michael's, home of many very good parties and lots of other beneficial activities and rebuild it as an authentic West Country-style art-themed loft-experience empty building. Or something. Er ... why?
And more importantly, who? Who thinks this is a good idea, apart from the fools who want to do it and their chums who'll be much richer after but so comprehensively loathed by the rest of us that they shouldn't be in charge of anything, least of all heavy plant machinery of town destruction because they are clearly staggeringly stupid, so stupid they can't grasp the staggeringly obvious fact that the hate levels they will experience if they go ahead with this hideous Poundburyfication of our beloved town are simply not worth the money in the bank and it's the worst idea ever anyway? And that could be the longest rhetorical question ever but I'm very, very cross. Except it's not a rhetorical question because I want answers.
Step up and be named and shamed you idiots.
I stated in a previous rant that I'm not a revolutionary. Well, that's just about to change. It might be time to incite a riot or two in defence of our lovely friends and their wonderful venue.
You've probably known all about this for ever. I can't have been paying attention but I've caught up now. I apologise for my late arrival but I intend to make it up to you.
So what's wrong this time, apart from all that? I'll tell you what. If you want to live in Anywheresville there are plenty of places to choose from so move. I'll help you pack if you promise to never come back. Leave Bridport. Even better: leave Briport alone. We like it just the way it is.
Next time: Ask Arlo. I can offer a reasoned and rational response to any questions you might have, especially on the subject of what to do with unwanted town planners.
A message for a head: the shed story is with the planning department at time of writing. Permission may be refused, of course, but as I'm now a political agitator I might just build it anyway.
Originally published on bridportradio.co.uk
Arlo Flinn Speaks 15th May 2009
Hands up if you're bored stiff with the latest shocking revelations over MPs expenses. The only really surprising thing about it is that anyone is actually surprised. And no media types can seriously claim to be outraged and appalled: they've all known for ever what our democratically (ha ha) elected representatives are up to... heads in the trough, lads... and are happily cashing in themselves with weeks of totally predictable claptrap that they don't even have to get out of bed to write because they've all known all about it for ever. Allegedly. I say, sack the bloody lot of them and elect... um...
And there's the problem. Caligula had the right idea, of course, although some of his policies weren't that popular: put a horse in the Senate. Horses are generally quite nice, they keep their interviews short and even if they do fiddle their expenses, it's only for the odd sack of carrots. And there are lots of them to choose from, especially here in the Wild West.
Dr. Johnson says boredom is the real killer. Think of your families and watch out this weekend for more special pull-out reports in the already mammoth Saturday and Sunday papers, more in-depth interviews on extended news programmes, more blah blah blah blah blah. They're taking us for a ride, twice over.
So all the more reason then to consider the equestrian route: at least a horse will take you somewhere you actually want to go. With luck.
Be radical... smoke more fags!
And buy a copy of my book Thank you for not smoking
Writer of Wrongs 23rd May 2009
And what's wrong this week?
I'll tell you what ... apart from everything: the shock horror MP expenses swindle shock scandal is still running on and on and on with more totally unsurprising revelations being revealed every two and a half minutes. I say, who cares? I also say, could this be a smoke screen to cover some real news that the weepingly contrite government etc. doesn't want us to know about? And if so, what could it be? I also say, I hate rhetorical questions but don't you think they're just a little bit necessary? Sometimes?
Anyway, think on. What could be worse than repeatedly hearing what a bunch of scum our elected representatives really are? Um ... tricky, I admit, because so much immediately springs to mind, but if we try to put ourselves in the mindset of Parliament ... what have they really done?
I'll have to think about this because right now I've got to finish a bottle of wine before I go out drinking and actually, we don't need to worry too much about dying of tedium. I heard there's a plan afoot to put all the worst offending MPs on an island costing a mere £1600 and float them out to the middle of an ornamental lake full of piranhas and exploding myths where they will either starve or eat each other. Sounds good to me.
Be radical ... defy gravitas. And buy a copy of my book, you lazy b*****s.
Seagulls 10th June 2009
Despite living by the sea, it turns out that a lot of people in Bridport don't like seagulls. There's a fair chance they don't like a lot of other things too, like the sea, maybe, or each other. But whatever, there are far too many of them (seagulls) and they're a bit pushy ... is this ringing any bells at all? They make a stinking mess (seagulls) and they're generally rather noisy and unpleasant. Sound familiar?
Maybe not. But anyway, I like seagulls. They're merciless opportunists and very good at getting by. So just like me, then. Also, has anyone actually bothered to talk to them? (the seagulls, just to be absolutely clear). I have to admit that I've always found them to be resolutely disinterested in anything I have to say unless I'm holding a pizza, but that doesn't mean we should give up on the dialogue thing. Being marginally higher up the food chain, maybe it's our duty to devise a solution to this bird/man stand-off.
So ... perhaps we could ask them if they would consider relocating to Central Asia (the seagulls). Admittedly, there's no sea there but there might be nice rubbish dumps and dead donkeys and the occasional discarded limb or potato skin for them to feast on. And a welcoming, possibly not that fussy population.
Or ... perhaps in these tightened times we're missing a trick. Here is a ready source of protein, literally on our doorsteps (because that's where they find all their grub. It's true. You know it is) upon which we could feast. Except they might not taste that great, having already eaten all the food that we've already rejected. I don't know if there's a culinary term in existence to describe this process: a prize to the person who invents the best one.
Or ... we could train them to crap on people we don't like. Actually, that could already be happening. When did you last get a direct hit?
And that's one of my best reasons for liking them (the seagulls).
Have you ever bothered to look up as you kick out of the pub? They're up there, scooting about, rooftop to rooftop, unencumbered by taxi fares, doing their seagull thing, having a party all of their own.
The problem? We paid for it but we're not invited 'cos we can't fly. So maybe this is a simple case of sour grapes.
Love you anyway.
Thought for the week: if you can smell a rat, there's generally one standing behind you.
Challenge for the week: has anyone got any seagull/rat recipes I could review?
Euthanasia by soft cheese 10th July 2009
And what's wrong now? I'll tell you what: old people are dying, that's what. Which they tend to do anyway, eventually, but now they're dying because of our government! It's true! I know this because I was told so by an old yet still very much alive woman I met in a shop. She was trying to buy food, like you do in a food shop, and she was finding it hard to interpret the sell-by date because it was written in an obscure location in miniscule print and she couldn't tell, she said, once she'd found it, what the *@$*± it said. Those weren't her actual words but it was what she meant.
And then she said, Do you know what the government want to do? I think I probably shrugged at this point, because I just wanted my tahini and away to the pub, but she wasn't going to be thrown off that easily.
What the government are planning to do, she said, is abolish sell-by dates and old people are already dying because they can't read the damn things in the first place because they're too small (see above) and they're also horribly skint what with their pensions now being worth absolutely nothing and they're eating gone off food from the back of their fridges and poisoning themselves. And this is all going to get worse, with even more deaths, because of government policy. How will anyone be able to tell any more if it's fine or fatal?
I shrugged again, I think, but I was being drawn in and then ...
Ha! I'm assailed by the familiar odour of yet another mouldering conspiracy from our worthless elected members. The economy is trashed. We all know that (thanks, Maggie). The whole eco thing is looking decidedly wobbly. Pensions are worth a pittance, the people are reaching critical mass and the population is age-heavy ... quick, quick, think of something. Brilliant. Euthanasia by soft cheese! Or vegetarian slice! Even more brilliant: regional euthanasia! They'll never suspect if we pretend we're freeing up the economy and being dead green about waste and how shocking it is that we throw so much food away and they'll suspect even less if it's just old people stupidly eating out-of-date pasties or Lancashire hotpots or black pudding or haggis (always on offer after Burns' night. They ship them down from Scotland in poorly refrigerated mega-trucks) or whatever else it is that they all eat in their stinky hovels. And then we'll be free, free to govern a relieved populace because they'll be completely blinkered by gratitude that the immediate crisis has been diverted by our wonderful, skillful governance: fewer people, more to go round. And then we'll all get re-elected! Or something.
I'm not essentially revolutionary. I'm too lazy. But I like old people. They run committees and have clean-up days and do all the things I can't be arsed to do. I might be one myself, one day.
Holiday to End All Holidays 17th July 2009
So what's wrong now? I'll tell you what, apart from everything: the weather, of course.
I know it's futile to complain about the weather but I'm going to anyway because I found myself thinking, this very cold, very wet and crap morning, if we have another Summer like last year I'm going to buy a one-way ticket for the holiday of a life-time in Switzerland. That kind of holiday. The holiday to end all holidays: check in and check out.
I wouldn't really. I'm too poor to go anywhere, mainly because you lot aren't buying sufficient quantities of my brilliant book to fund more than two tins of sardines and a bottle of white cider a week, and I'm too sunny, even in the rain, but it got me thinking ... not the sardines, the weather/checking out permanently thing, although sardines are very good for your brain. Allegedly. Anyway, it got me thinking about that couple who went to Switzerland last week to end it all, Mr and Mrs Not-Hereanymore and I thought, do you really have to go that far to top yourself? What's wrong with good old Blighty for your date with the Almighty? And anyway, how do you get home again? In the parcel post? Or maybe there's a special unconsecrated graveyard for mortal sinners somewhere outside Lucerne, because the Swiss are mostly Catholics if they're anything and it's not allowed, you know. Killing yourself.
And another thing: why aren't the travel companies just a little suspicious, bearing in mind that euthanasia is illegal here, when people buy their tickets? Two singles to Geneva, please. And even more than that, what do poor people do who want to opt for the euthanasia route away from all this misery and suffering and bewilderment and have failed to kill themselves with soft cheese? (see previous drunken rant ) Go by bicycle? But what if they're too ill? So you see, it raises a lot of questions. Doesn't it?
Without a Return Ticket
But ha! Maybe this is yet another thread to the evil tapestry our worthless elected members are currently weaving ... a crude woolen depiction of Aryan youth and vigour and uncomplicated, spotless lives. A bit like a picture of Switzerland, oddly. Check out the Swiss immigration policy. They're not too welcoming, unless it's just for a very short stay. Come to think of it, you can't go to many places in the world without a return ticket, especially places with hysterical immigration strategies, the USA, for example ...
Um ... now I've woven myself into a bit of a corner. Damn it. I knew I couldn't do this sober. But there was, is a point, which is ...
Never mind. It'll come back, and if you expect answers from me I need enough income to purchase a decent bottle of Chianti once in a while.
Love you.
Arlo Flinn Thank you for not Smoking
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